Eve Silver (33 page)

“Go!” She yanked it open and half pushed Abigail out into the rain-drenched night. Water struck her face, the wind whipping it like a thousand stinging pins. Standing next to the casement, Darcie turned her face toward the door. A jagged flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting its eerie glow on the face of her tormentor.

The door was open several inches, the bureau blocking it from opening more. Lord Albright shoved his shoulder in the space and pushed. It widened another inch.

He lifted his head and smiled, lips pulling back from sharp, pointed teeth.

“You were to be mine that night. I could taste you, smell you. I paid for you, and you ran away.”

She shook her head, confused.

He had
paid
for her?

“You do not know? I paid your stepfather for the right to your virgin’s blood.”

Oh, God. He was the man she was meant for that night, the night Steppy was killed.

 “At first, I was angry that you fled. I hunted for you. Did you know that?” She edged back toward the window as he spoke, fear and horror running like ice through her veins. “And then I found you. I followed you past the slaughterhouse and down the alleys,” he continued.

Darcie stared in mute horror as the gap in the door widened under the press of his shoulder. Soon it would widen enough that he would slip through.

He laughed, a dark, cold sound. “Did you think I would not find you?” he asked. The knife in his hand caught the light. Looking into his soulless eyes, she saw the promise of her death. “Tonight, you will not escape.”

Darcie clenched her fingers around the rolling pin that she had instinctively brought from the kitchen. She would not play the timid mouse. She would fight.

Damien.
She whispered his name, or perhaps she yelled it aloud. Damien. He was her talisman, her amulet against this evil. His love for her, and hers for him, gave her strength. She would not die here this night, leaving him alone and hopeless once more.

With a scraping sound, the bureau moved across the floor, inch by inch, the door pushing open behind it. Terror surged, and with it, determination. A fresh burst of wind carried the rain against her back. Darcie shot a frantic glance over her shoulder at the open window. Then she turned back, aimed, and hurled the rolling pin at Albright’s face with all her might.

There was a thud and a grunt, proof that her aim was true, but she did not tarry to make certain. She clambered out the window into the cold embrace of the raging storm.

Her feet slid precariously as she balanced on the rain-slick ledge, the wind clawing at her skirt, the rain soaking her to the skin. She inched to her left, moving away from the open window. Above the sound of the storm, she heard her name. Plastering herself against the rough wall at her back, she glanced to her right. Abigail was standing on the roof of the next building, screaming and waving frantically.

She could see Abigail’s lips moving, but she was unable to make out her sister’s frenzied cries. Her words were swallowed by the howling wind. Darcie stared at Abigail, watching the movement of her arms, the direction of her gaze, and in that moment, she understood her precarious position.

An icy fist clenched around her heart as she looked to her left and saw the smooth face of another house. No ledge, no handhold, nowhere to hide. She had gone the wrong way. There was no escape here. A moan of despair escaped her as she looked back to her right and saw Lord Albright’s head poke through the open window. He saw her and his lips peeled back in a terrifying parody of a smile.

There was no possibility of backtracking, no chance to escape that way. Her breath came in rasping gasps. Her heart thumped a painful rhythm. Blinding panic assailed her as she realized there were no options left to her.

How far to the street below? Too far. Such a leap would mean her certain death. She squinted against the heavy sheet of rain that pounded her with driving force. Her breath caught, hanging suspended in her throat. There on the street below, legs braced, head flung back, stood Damien. Her Damien, illuminated by the glow of the street lamp. She screamed his name, again and again.

His features were a taut, stark mask of horror as his gaze shifted to her right. She knew what he saw there. Death, waiting to claim her.

Inching farther along the limited space, she glanced to the side, watching in dread as Lord Albright climbed the rest of the way out the window and rose to stand erect. He inched toward her, matching each step she took, stalking her. The knife gleamed. His lips drew back in a feral snarl.

“You were meant for me, that first night, my tasty dish. You were mine. You
are
mine. I will have you. Your blood. Your life.” His eyes burned with an unholy light, and his words froze Darcie’s blood in her veins.

She shrank back, moving too quickly. Her left foot slid, and she screamed, terror throbbing through her as she struggled to stop herself from plummeting to the ground so far below.

Her fingers clawed the rough surface of the wall at her back, scrabbling for purchase. Somewhere deep inside she thought that if she could only hold on to the treasured sight of Damien, if she could only keep her eyes on his, she would find the strength to survive this nightmare. Abigail was below in the street now, too, her upturned face a pale oval. Darcie felt a moment’s relief at the knowledge that her sister was safe.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Albright shift along the ledge, one step closer and another. He reached one hand toward her. Her skin crawled at the thought of his touch.

Below her there was movement. Inspector Trent was there on the street, and several other men. But Damien, where was Damien?

She felt strangely detached, watching as a carriage rolled along the road, its spoked wheels splashing sheets of water in all directions. Her mind fixated on one thought.

Damien. Damien. Damien.

She wanted to see him one last time. To tell him she loved him. To tell him to be strong. Her throat burned. Tears stung her eyes, blinding her.

The carriage stopped directly beneath her. Damien clambered from the driver’s bench onto the roof, the wind catching his cloak, making it billow wildly about his tall frame. His face was a mask of concentration, focused on her. At the sight of him, her heart gave a tiny leap of joy that broke through the overwhelming tide of terror that swamped her. Her world seemed to contract until there was only Damien, looking up at her with such love and concern.

“Jump, Darcie,” he called, his voice overcoming the storm, his eyes fixed on hers with steadfast intensity.

She shrank back against the wall. Lord Albright was nearly upon her, the knife in his hand glittering with fiendish promise as it reflected the glow of the streetlamps. She edged away, but there was truly nowhere left to go.

He would kill her, here, in front of all these people. He was mad.

Darcie returned her gaze to Damien. He stood on the top of the carriage in the same posture as he had taken on the street, his legs braced, his head thrown back, every fiber of his being focused on her. She loved him so much.

“Darcie,” he screamed again. “Jump.”

Oh, God! She didn’t want him to watch her die, could not bear the thought that he would suffer for the loss of her as he had suffered at the death of his sister.

Jump. Jump. Jump.
To the street that seemed miles away. She stared transfixed at the cobbles below.

“Jump, Darcie.” His voice was tight, urgent. “Trust me.”

Trust me.
Those two words shook her from her stupor. She heard the echo of the things he did not say.
Trust me to love you forever. Trust me to catch you when you fall.

Her heart twisted, a sharp, hard clutch of terror. If she jumped and he was wrong, she would shatter in pieces on the cobbled road.
Trust me.
Such a massive choice. Yet, not a difficult choice at all, for her heart whispered that she had trusted him with so much already: her heart, her soul, her love. Now she must trust him with her life.

He stood silent, his arms flung wide calling her to his embrace.
Trust me.

She felt the brush of Albright’s fingers on her shoulder, as cold and unwelcome as the brush of death. Spreading her arms wide, Darcie threw herself from the ledge.

So this was what it felt like to fly. Her skirt caught the wind, flapping about her like the wings of a huge bird. She tried to keep her eyes on Damien but the rain pounded down on her, drenching her face, obscuring her vision. She felt she was beyond time, hurtling through the dark night.

With a jarring force she slammed into him, felt his arms close around her, his solid weight fall back beneath hers as they both tumbled flat on the roof of the carriage that rocked and squeaked in protest. They slid and skidded on the smooth surface.

She lifted her head and saw the drop racing toward her. They were going to fall.

Damien’s legs moved beneath hers, his knees bending, his heels scraping as he tried to stop them from tilting over the edge. The muscles of his chest and arms flexed and strained as he tightened his hold on her with one arm and reached for the raised edge of the roof with the other.

She flung out one hand and clawed her fingers around the opposite side of the carriage roof.

And between them, they did it. They hung there, poised at the drop.

Panting, gasping, she lay atop him, her head against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat roaring in her ears. He shifted beneath her, easing them away from the edge.

After a moment, she realized that he was whispering her name, over and over, his arms wrapped so tightly around her that she could hardly breathe. Slowly, she became aware of other sounds. Abigail’s hysterical cries. The sound of Inspector Trent’s voice. The nicker of one of the horses.

She was alive. She was
alive.

Damien’s fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back as his mouth sought hers. His kiss was frantic, ungentle. He kissed her with a wild desperation, his lips grinding against hers. Then he gentled, his tongue licking, tasting.

Inhaling the rain-soaked scent of him, Darcie ran her fingers over the wet cloth of his cloak. With a cry, she tore free two buttons of his shirt, thrusting her hand beneath the linen to rest it against the damp warmth of his living, breathing skin. He had not abandoned her to her fate. He was here.

“You came for me.” She drew back, taking in every beautifully sculpted line and curve of his beloved face.

His expression reflected wonder and absolute joy. “You jumped.”

“I jumped.” A wild laugh escaped her, half hysteria, half unmitigated euphoria.

She struggled to absorb the narrowness of her escape, the magnitude of her relief. They lay on the roof of the carriage, arms and legs entwined, not moving, not speaking as the rain abated, slowing to a drizzle. Vaguely aware of the sound of Inspector Trent’s voice and the men he had brought with him, she could not rouse herself enough to investigate the commotion.

“How did you know where I had gone?” she asked, her attention riveted on Damien, the feel of his skin beneath her hand, the welcome warmth of his embrace.

He kissed the top of her head. “Poole saw you leave. He struck out after you, but was too late to catch you. By the time he reached Hyde Park, you were climbing into the hack.” He shot her a reproving glance. “You were nearly the death of me, Darcie. When I saw you there, on that ledge, my brain ceased all logical function.”

Her own emotions were stripped bare by the pain she heard in his voice.

“Not all logical function. Your intellect saved me.”

A harsh bark of laughter escaped him. “No, Darcie. Not intellect. Desperation.” He cupped her cheek. “And trust. You trusted me.”

“Yes.” The simple word held an abundance of meaning. She frowned. “But even though Poole witnessed my departure, that does not tell me how you knew where I had gone.”

“That, my love, was blind luck. Upon my return from Bow Street, Poole greeted me at the door with the news of your precipitous exit. Having no other place to begin my search, I traced your footsteps to the park. As luck would have it, the hack returned there after dropping you here. I was able to question the driver.”

Darcie stared at him, stunned. “I asked the man to wait, but he disliked the look of the neighborhood and refused.”

“Blessed luck that he left you, for if he had not…” His voice trailed away.

She smiled a little. “I would not have thought you believed in luck, Damien.”

“I did not. Until tonight.”

Their gazes met, full of unspoken understanding.

“Lord Albright, I tell you again, return to the window.” Inspector Trent’s voice boomed from the street, making Darcie aware of her surroundings, reminding her that the murderer was yet to be apprehended.

Shifting to a sitting position, she turned and looked up. Lord Albright balanced on the ledge, his knife clasped in one hand. His head whipped frantically back and forth, as though he searched for some means of escape.

“Come no closer,” he bellowed.

“Return through the window,” Inspector Trent ordered.

A large, burly constable applied his shoulder to the front door of Abigail’s house. The sound of splintering wood was followed by a loud thud as what remained of the door swung back and slammed into the wall. Two constables rushed through the opening.

“Stay back.” Albright’s voice had risen a notch. “I am a peer of the realm. You have no right…” Lord Albright shook his head from side to side as though trying to clear it. “Where is my valet? My coat is wet. I need my valet.”

He looked toward Darcie, then away, searching out Abigail who stood alone on the street below.

“Abigail, my pet,” he said plaintively. “I cannot find my valet.” His face seemed to collapse on itself, leaving him standing, cold and wet on a precarious ledge, a man lost in his own mind. Head cocked to one side, he looked at Trent before glancing back at the open window, his expression one of pained bafflement.

And then he flung himself from the ledge.